


Sick Day

by Vrunka



Series: Version 2.0 [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, M/M, android dick upgrades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Gavin spends the next three days drunk, pretending he isn’t as deep in it as he absolutely is.





	Sick Day

Gavin Reed spends the next three days drunk, wallowing around his apartment. He’s wracked up enough vacation time to get away with the stunt.

The fact that he’s essentially hiding from his android partner...well that’s a separate matter entirely.

One he will not, does not, cannot address. Especially when he’s knuckle deep in his own ass trying trying trying to replicate the feeling of RK900’s cool fingers within him.

Trying and failing.

Not deep enough, not sure enough.

Too human, too floundering.

Christ he hates it.

Hates that he can’t shake RK900’s fucking voice from inside his brain. “Don’t you wish it was me, Detective? Don’t you want more than what you can give yourself? I can’t hear you over your moaning, Reed.” God, god! It’s infuriating.

Gavin drinks, viciously, to keep the chiding, teasing phantoms at bay.

“You shouldn’t drink so much, Detective, it’s bad for your health. Would you like to end up like Lieutenant Anderson?”

Or mostly.

Gavin squeezes his eyes shut. He drinks until he blacks out. Until the world sinks into the background. Until there is nothing left but lurching, woozy tightness in his stomach and blissful, blissful nothing in his head.

Nothing.

Until there is something.

His alarm, screeching him awake at seven-thirty in the morning. Hangover bright and thick across the front of his brain, wooly like a blanket. Almost comforting in its familiarity.

Gavin breathes.

Day four. Four days.

He should probably face this shit. Probably face his shit. His reflection in the mirror is a horror show. Ratty beard, greasy hair. Dark circles beneath his eyes.

And that bruise.

Mustn’t forget that now.

Faded from angry, buzzing red to a more sickly sort of purple. Edges going yellow-green as three days of rest has started it healing. Gavin touches at the skin. Tracing the curved, defiant end of it. The shadow where the insole couldn’t put as much pressure.

He stares at his face in the mirror.

Fuck it, he’s calling out today too. The precinct will manage without him. Hell, it hardly needs anyone with Robocop on the job. RK900’s absolute bonkers efficiency.

He’s halfway to the bedroom and his phone when the buzzer for his door goes off. Someone downstairs, dialing the wrong access most likely, it happens a lot, all the time. The noise cuts through Gavin’s head like a buzzsaw though, too harsh and too sharp for his hungover self.

He backtracks to the front door. Hits the unlock code for the main entrance without a second thought. Whoever they’re here to see can deal with the fucking surprise, Gavin isn’t in the mood or the headspace to deal with trying to sort out who they’re actually trying to reach.

He leans against the wall. Presses his forehead against the plaster like it will help quell the twisting behind his eyes. Settle it some. It’s just his head, luckily enough, nothing to puke out, but it feels fucking awful. Like he’s been dragging his brain across glass shards.

He needs to call in. To let Fowler know. He needs to move. He leans against the wall.

He leans against the wall.

Someone pounds on his door.

The thunk thunk of it travels through the wood and shatters across Gavin’s brain like ice water. Too shocking to be painful at first. Gavin’s eyes snap open.

They—whoever it is—knocks again. Just as hard.

As brutally efficient.

Gavin swallows.

He doesn’t like where this is going.

Slowly, wary, he approaches the door. Peers into the peek hole. And there, on the other side, standing like this is normal routine is RK900. Frowning slightly as always. The fish-eyed lens of the hole throws its symmetrical face out of proportion.

“I know you’re there, Detective Reed,” it says. Clipped and businesslike. “You can let me in.”

Gavin’s hand curls against the wood. He closes his eyes. Opens them again. What choice does he have? RK900 is even more stubborn than Connor had proven to be. More dogged and ruthless in it’s methods. If it’s here to fetch him, if it has decided in it’s robot-wisdom that this is the mission for the day, then there is little and less Gavin can do to stop it.

Frowning himself, more than a little pissed, Gavin flips the lock up; he opens the door.

“The fuck do you want, bicentennial man?” he asks.

RK900’s head tilts to the side, processing the nickname, perhaps, or taking in Gavin’s rather shabby appearance. Either way, its light flickers, its eyes narrow.

“You have been skipping work,” it says, “which unprofessional, unacceptable behavior.”

“Gee, sorry, mother. I’ll include a note from the doctor next time, okay?”

“You are not sick. Your biorhythms are elevated but your temperature is normal. You should come to work, Detective. You don’t get to throw a fit just because you’ve discovered sexual attraction to a coworker.”

Gavin feels himself blanch, color and blood draining from his face. He grabs one of RK900’s lapels, pulls the android bodily into his home.

RK900’s fingers circling his wrist. Plastic and metal and synthetic skin encircling him tight as any handcuffs.

“We have spoken about you touching me, Detective,” it says. Between its teeth, as close to a snarl as Gavin has seen from it before. He reaches back to slam the door shut, one-handed. The other twitches in RK900’s unforgiving grip.

“And we’ve spoken about you shutting the fuck up about my shit when you’re in public. Jesus, do you want my neighbors thinking I’m some kinda android fucker? That I’m a freak?”

“They are more likely to think it watching you drag me into your home, Detective.”

“Fuck off.”

“Are you aware that there are traces of lubricant on your fingers?” RK900 says. Turning Gavin’s wrist until the muscles ache from the stretch, all the way down to his elbow. Its gaze flittering over Gavin’s knuckles. “Must just be coincidence.”

“Bullshit there is,” Gavin says. His voice falters, just a little bit. He’s washed his fucking hands since last night’s disappointing finger-bang, he’s not about to fall for some psychological back-flipping just to feed the android’s damn ego.

RK900’s light circles yellow again, quick motion, shuddering. Gavin barely has time to react before the android is sliding his fingers into its mouth, tongue tracking over the joints. Not sexual in the least but violating and gross. Gavin hisses. His gut cramps.

“God, stop,” he says, pulling fruitlessly at RK900’s fingers.

The mouth opens. Gavin’s fingers slide free. “Glycerin,” it says, “and traces of hydroxyethyl cellulose, chlorhexidine gluconate, glucono delta-lactone, methylparaben and sodium hydroxide. Some of these chemicals are also found in common hand soaps, but you’re blushing, Detective, and your respiration has increased substantially.”

“So what?”

“So you are some kind of android fucker, Reed. Unless you’re going to say it wasn’t me you were thinking about.”

“Maybe it was Connor.”

RK900 grins. It actually grins. Just the corners of its lips rising up, curling coldly. “I’ve already told you my predecessor couldn’t have given you this. No, you need a firmer hand than it had. Someone to put you exactly where you belong.”

Under its foot, with his cock out. Against a door in some anonymous bathroom with its fingers in his ass. Dominated. Fucking owned. Gavin shudders. His eyes slide closed. Connor could not have given him this, RK900 is absolutely correct.

But that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy.

“I thought you didn’t have a dick, Tin Man.”

RK900 looks down at itself. The undeniable, tell-tale swell of a cock within its jeans. It’s light goes yellow, yellow, then back to smooth blue.

“May I be honest with you, Detective Reed?”

“Fuck. Yeah. I mean. I suppose.”

“After our...negotiations I thought perhaps it would help further our working relationship. The upgrade was one among many I could choose from.”

“You’re full of shit, you know that. This you going deviant? Turned into a slut instead of following CyberLife’s orders?”

Yellow again, flashing in warning. When Gavin’s legs get knocked out from under him, it’s hardly a surprise. He still lands with a pained grunt, breath hissing past his teeth and his knees meet the floor. Even carpeted, the impact makes his thighs ache, stomach clenching.

“Perhaps you’re still drunk, Detective Reed, your balance seems compromised.”

Gavin sneers. “But while I’m down here I may as well suck your new little addition, is that it?” He’s already lifting his hands to paw at it. Messaging the synthetic hardness within the tight confines of RK900’s trousers. Fingering the zipper. Thumb sliding over the cool metal of the button.

“If you’re so inclined.” It’s trying to sound detached. Disinterested. Clinical. But something in the recorded voice catches just a little too sharply. RK900’s hips jostling forward just enough to simulate desire.

Gavin doesn’t waste any time. While he’s horrified that this is doing it for him, that he’s turned on by the thought of sucking this thing’s rubber dildo dick, he’s also always been pretty bad at denying himself. When he wants something he takes it, grabs for it with both hands and a ruthlessness that even RK900 should be proud of.

He presses his face into opening of RK900’s pants, breathing harshly through his nose as the dick below him reacts to his touch.

More than just a dildo it seems. The skin on the cock is about the only thing less than human-like. The coloring is too even from root to tip. Circumcised, mushroom-headed, but no scarring or redness where there normally would be.

Not that Gavin’s an expert on dicks or anything, but he went to college and he had a wild fucking time so...so—

“You can put it in your mouth,” RK900 says. “I would like to see you choke on it.”

Which is...is a fucking lot of words. A whole series of blinding, uncomfortable feelings welling up in Gavin’s chest. He wants to choke on it. He wants it in his mouth.

That thought is the most immediate.

He grips the base, guides the head between his lips.

He doesn’t know the reaction to expect, half-hopes that RK900 will be all throaty virgin moans, falling apart at the seams over new sensations. It’s not what he gets. RK900 expels a breath through its nose, its fingers grip the sides of Gavin’s head. Curling in his hair. Other than that, nothing, stoicism. Barely a twitch of emotion across its face. No hint of pleasure or lust.

Gavin lets his own gaze drift away.

Focuses his attentions on the cock in his mouth instead. It is firm beneath his tongue, just thick enough he can really feel the stretch in his jaw. A good dick, really. Off-the-shelf perfect. Gavin twists his hands around what doesn’t quite fit into his mouth, pulling back to bounce the end of it against his tongue.

Sloppy. Spittle working down his lips and into the scruffy mess of his stubble. He groans in appreciation when those hands in his hair drag him back onto the length of it, the first real read of desperation. Above him, RK900 still makes no noise, but they can work on that, later later.

The fact that Gavin knows there will be a later, an again, a recurring thing...that’s...that’s, well it’s pretty fucked up. He never would have pegged this outcome for himself.

Never would have seen himself down on his knees sucking android cock just for the hell of it.

A cock which has begun to leak against his soft palette. A slow sort of ooze from the tip, not as salty or heady as human come. RK900’s jizz tastes like nothing. Like a simple tasteless coating across Gavin’s tongue.

They could have at least given it some fucking flavor. Minty freshness or some bullshit. A whole marketing opportunity missed.

He’s gonna crane his neck back and bite the quip up to RK900 but as he goes to, as his lips drag up to the head, teeth catching once, briefly, gently; he gets his first real, real reaction. RK900 takes a breath, a shuddering pull of unneeded air and over the exhale it says: “Shit.” Which is...like the fifth time ever Gavin has heard it curse.

Like ever.

The word, the tone, all broken and guttural and under its breath, goes straight to Gavin’s gut, his ego.

He pushes down on the dick so quick it leaves him blinking back tears. Swallows convulsively until the cock is teasing at the back of his throat. Damn thing said it wanted to see him choke, well, here he is, choking, exaggerating the gagging as he sucks air through his nose.

It earns him another bitten off hiss. A twitch of the fingers against his scalp. Another more purposeful one when Gavin hums in pleasure around the synthetic flesh.

And then those fingers, inhumanly strong, are pulling him off, dragging him up the cock until it slides obscenely from his lips. Bobbing in the air. Slight blue tinge to the flesh from its Thirium blood, and shiny shiny with Gavin’s spit.

It’s off-putting for sure, the lack of ruddiness, but Gavin doesn’t get the chance to focus on it.

RK900 pulls him to standing. Manhandles him until he is face-first against the wall. Arched between it and RK900’s chest. Its thick, immovable weight.

There’s a hand around Gavin’s throat, mechanical fingers digging mercilessly into the healing bruise. Gavin gags, shudders. His own hands sweat against the plaster, fruitless, pressed flat, catching on nothing.

“Suck,” RK900 says, jamming the fingers of its free hand into Gavin’s mouth. Stroking against his tongue. Shoving back far enough he’s gagging again, this time less for show.

He doesn’t offer the fact that the lube RK900 detected on him is still in the bedroom. That it might work smoother than spit. He’s loathe to break the dynamic that way.

So he doesn’t.

He just groans, spreading his legs when the android pulls his boxers down. When the android squeezes over his Adam’s apple in response. Gavin’s throat trembling bird-like beneath that wide, unflinching hand. His pulse going haywire in the hollow of his jaw.

And there there there there it is—the feeling he’s been chasing for three days. Those barely wet enough fingers shoving inside of him, with smooth, mechanical urgency. A jumpstart to two which is almost too much, has Gavin reeling, panting against the wall, throat bobbing uselessly into RK900’s hand.

“Fuck,” he says, “oh fuck.” He arches his back, thrilling in the feel of RK900’s just right touches. Pressing so deep its knuckles catch on the rim of Gavin’s ass, pulling those two fingers back out so it’s just the tips within him and then doing it again.

“You’re so fuckin’ deep,” Gavin is saying, babbling. Brain gone into a fritz from the feeling of being controlled so easily. Pliant and useless in RK900’s capable hands. “God, yeah, wreck my hole. Feel how tight I am for you? You feel it, Tin Man?”

“Your vulgarities are more in line with a poorly budgeted porno, Detective. You should stick to your day job.”

Which is...a joke? Or something. A self-effacing laugh bubbles right at the bottom of Gavin’s abused esophagus. Is only killed because RK900 chooses that exact moment to push the third finger in. The laughter dissolves into a groan, a thick, phlegmy noise.

RK900’s head leans against Gavin’s cheek, hooked over his shoulder as it works both hands, pressing and squeezing. Playing Gavin like a poorly tuned instrument, working sounds and moans out of him relentlessly.

A slut for it, though RK900 isn’t saying it and Gavin doesn’t know how to ask him to. Can’t ask for much of anything when the hand on his throat tightens to the point of cutting off his oxygen. A measured clicking of the joints, closing his airway with scientific ease. Gavin grunts, works his hips down on RK900’s fingers.

Enthusiastic consent.

A fucking slut for it.

“Please,” Gavin hisses. Voice almost non-existent. Raw from a lack of air, stale and wilting.

RK900’s light shudders yellow, yellow, red, blue, blue, blue. “Please what?” The hand lifts marginally, the fingers in Gavin’s ass roll against his prostate once before pausing.

“Can I—May I touch—“

“If you must.”

He could probably come from this alone, did the other day though he chocks that mostly up to the shock of it. He could come untouched, but he doesn’t want to. Craves his impending orgasm the way a junkie does. Temporary shattering relief.

He grips his own cock, rubs it in time with the ceaseless motion of RK900’s fingerfucking.

He’d be embarrassed about how quickly he comes to the finish after that if he weren’t so goddamn deep in it. Releasing hot and sticky onto his own grasping hand, mouthing at the plaster of his wall, an open-mouth, panting mess.

RK900’s fingers leave him quicker this time. Pull out roughly enough, Gavin shivers, flinching. He feels RK900 shifting behind him, jostling him slightly. Toying with its new cock perhaps, stroking the length of it to the tune of Gavin’s arched spine and wrecked asshole.

He doesn’t turn his head to see, the imagined image is good enough. Gavin licks his lips.

“You can put it in,” Gavin says. Barely a whisper against the wall. Still shaking, aftershocks of his orgasm leaving his muscles weak and trembling. Only RK900’s hand on his throat keeping him upright. “I want to—want you to go ahead and prove that thing about my refractory period, huh?”

“You’re saying you want me to fuck you, Detective Reed?”

“Yeah. Yes. Please.” It’s not a whine. Or more accurately, it absolutely is, but Gavin would rather die than admit it. Admit he’s begging for the tin man’s goddamn cock. Begging. Nothing demanding or in control about it.

He just wants to be fucked through the afterglow. Pounded until he’s nothing but a sobbing, destroyed mess. The thought is enough to make Gavin shudder against the wall. Visceral.

RK900 makes a sound. Servos humming louder than normal. Processing or something. Thinking. He’s thinking—it’s thinking. Gavin hardly has the strength for the usual venom in the thought.

“The time is now eight fifty-six am,” RK900 says.

The fuck?

What the actual fuck?

“Okay,” Gavin says.

“It is not in my programming to be late for work, Detective.”

“Are you shitting me? You’re fucking with me, right?”

But he isn’t, clearly. RK900 steps away. Backs off. Tucking his dick behind the zipper of his pants. Fixing his hem and his jacket cuffs. Fussy little motions.

He blinks at the stare Gavin is giving him. Blankly innocent. “I suppose it will take you longer to get ready. You should shave, Detective, clean yourself up. I can inform Sargent Fowler that you will be late.”

“R—Tin Man, this is a goddamn joke.”

“It is most certainly not. I am leaving. I will tell them to expect you no later than ten-fifteen, Reed.”

“You can’t be serious.”

But he is. It is. Mechanical and cold again. All hint of the earlier, dominating desire evaporated. Clicked off like a light switch. Sub routines overridden by prime directives.

Fucking robots.

Fucking shit.


End file.
